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"A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanged, it is the skin of a living thought and may vary greatly in color and content according to the circumstances and the time in which it is used" - Oliver Wendell Holmes

Hantaran Buat Mangsa Lupa

Hantaran Buat Mangsa Lupa (Offerings for the Victims of Amnesia) is a triple-bill
of plays, written and directed by Irfan Kasban and presented by Teater Ekamatra, which
tackles the issue of faith by drawing its inspiration from various aspects of
Islam. It's a confrontational, intense and occasionally cryptic work but one
that is suffused with a quiet beauty. The three plays in Hantaran are very different in tone but, seen as a whole, they form
a stately journey through one's faith, from the courtly world of angels to the
ordinary man in the street.

The trilogy begins with the gorgeously stylized
Genap 40 (8/10), a play first
staged back in 2007. We are presented with the image of a woman in a white veil
praying against a red backdrop. A black thrust stage leads up to a square pond
of water. The silence is punctuated by the trickle of water from a shard of ice
in the ceiling melting into the pond. It’s a great visual tableau that sets the
introspective, spiritual mood.

Drawing its inspiration from the story of
Hawa (Eve), Genap 40 dramatises a
meeting between her and the Malaikat (angel) summoned to blow the soul into her
unborn child and bestow the decrees of fate, sustenance, finiteness and faith that
will be etched into its being on the 40th day of conception. The
dramatic impetus of the piece comes from Malaikat showing up for his task earlier
than expected. 14-year-old Rian Asrudi captures the calm, ethereal quality of
the piece, uttering his lines placidly and going about his motions with a
graceful air. Rian however tends to speak too softly at times and lacks the gravitas
of Malay TV stalwart Mastura Ahmad who captivates with her strong, emotive
performance as Hawa.

Genap 40 plays
out as a slow, elegant ritual and it is this sense of stasis that gives the
play its resonance. I found myself noticing small details: after lighting every
ten candles or so, Malaikat collects a new gift from his tray, delivers it to
Hawa and moves to a different side of the stage; each gift is accepted by her
with great respect as she goes about meticulously preparing 40 cups of tea. All
the while, Irfan's dialogue, a lyrical shower of words, drizzles over the stage.
As the line of lit candles along the thrust stage snakes its way to Hawa, we
get the sense that the light and blessings of God are coming her way and she
feels assured of that final decree. It is only then that Malaikat reveals his
true identity: he is Azrael, the Angel of Death.

When Hawa declares that the name she had
intended to give the child is Iman (faith), the subtle irony of the wordplay is
not lost on us. Malaikat denies Hawa that final decree of iman, and from bearing her unborn child Iman, but deep down inside,
her faith in God – her personal iman
- remains unshaken. One cannot help but empathise with the angry and
questioning voice of Hawa in the play, a feeling that many of us have felt at
some stage of our lives when dealing with religion. It is here that the
universality of Genap 40 shines
through; it is not so much a specific document on Islam as a broader statement
on one's personal beliefs and coming to terms with the divine will.

The second play - W.C. (7/10) –
is entirely different. A boy (Rian Asrudi) and a man (Sani Hussin) are trapped
in a toilet cubicle, apparently waiting for something to happen. The characters
are named Ibrahim and Ismail, and the play is inspired by the story of
sacrifice in the Qur’an where God sought to test the prophet Ibrahim (Abraham)
by bidding him to sacrifice his son, Ismail (Ishmael).

The relationship between the characters in W.C is however far more ambiguous. At
one point, Ibrahim approaches Ismail and utters, "Do you like to play
football?" an innocuous statement that takes on a darker hue in the seedy context. A theme that comes across is that of voyeurism. The transparent
walls of the toilet cubicle, which is built over the pond, allow us to see
everything that goes on inside and we feel that we are intruding on a very
personal space. We also have a sense of power over the characters by knowing
what lurks beyond their confines. Sani and Rian do a good job of communicating
the tension and shifting dynamic between the characters; the fitful and
impulsive Ibrahim is lulled to sleep by Ismail, yet later he plays the role of
comforter to the boy after a violent tussle.

A feature of W.C. that may not have been apparent is the numerous symbolic
references to the Hajj pilgrimage. The characters are dressed in the basic white
clothing of ihram worn by pilgrims
during Hajj to signify their state of purity. A woman paces around the stage,
raps on the door of the cubicle and runs back and forth. The programme notes
tell us that she is Hajar - the mother of Ismail. I was reminded of the brisk
walk performed by Hajj pilgrims between the hills of Safa and Marwah in Saudi
Arabia, in commemoration of Hajar who went in search of water in the
desert to feed her infant son. Indeed,
reference is even made to the water that seems to be all around them. Towards
the end of the play, Hajar takes wadded-up balls of tissue and throws them
against the door of the cubicle, an allusion to the ritual stoning of the devil
that is also performed as part of the Hajj. But who the devil meant to be?

Hantaran is
brought to a close with 94:05 (8/10), a new play that rounds up the trilogy by bringing it to the present day.
94:05 derives its name from chapter (surah) 94, verse 5 of the Qur'an which
reads: “So, verily, with every difficulty, there is relief”. It is a simple,
naturalistic monologue by a 39-year-old man called Ahmad (Sani Hussin) who
suffers from a heart complication and recalls stories from both his life and
that of the Prophet Muhammad.

I was particularly taken by the staging of
this final play. For the second half of the performance (W.C. and 94:05), the
seating is changed to that of a theatre-in-the-round, with audience members
seated on all four sides of a central acting space. Irfan makes full use of
this space, having Sani run round all four sides of the stage, constantly
moving and addressing lines directly at the audience. What makes
theatre-in-the-round so unique is the feeling of joint participation it elicits.
When Sani asks us if we love our fathers, we find ourselves nodding even as we
see the person sitting opposite us doing the same. We see them laugh, express
pity (and sing Happy Birthday) at the same time and feel like we're undergoing
a special experience together. It’s a brilliant way to draw in the audience and
create truly effective theatre.

94:05 is a chatty
and enjoyable piece. Aurally and linguistically, it stands in stark contrast to
the smooth lyricism of Genap 40,
featuring colloquial expressions, disjointed speech patterns and choppy cadences.
This is the story of the everyman, one whose life has not been smooth but who
nonetheless finds solace in his faith. The references to Prophet Muhammad’s
life keep the narrative interesting while providing a religious gloss; in a
clever parallel, Ahmad tells us how his chest was split open during an
operation in the same way that the Prophet’s was by God. Yet, 94:05 is also a somewhat clunky piece
that needs to be reined in. In terms of pace, it peters out towards the end
when Ahmad starts reciting key events in his life and seems to be in a rush to
wrap up his tale. While Sani turns in a heartfelt and engaging performance, I wished
for a tighter narrative that reached its bittersweet dénouement more quickly.

The framing device for the play, the titular surah on relief (Al-Sharh), is recited verse by verse in Arabic. A unique feature of
Al-Sharh is that verses 5 and 6 are
repeated, emphasising the fact that solace would arrive for one in a period of
darkness and difficulty. However, when the verses are spliced across the
narrative, they tend to lose their impact. I would have preferred the surah to be recited in its entirety,
perhaps at the start of the play to set the tone.

Each play in Hantaran stands on its own but put together for the first time, they
form a rich triptych about the importance of believing in something greater
than oneself. There are plenty of symbols and images in Irfan’s text that may
not be caught by everyone but I don't think this proves alienating to an audience; it speaks to
each person in a different way. Indeed,
as Ahmad hands out little packets of sweets to every member of the audience
before making his exit, one senses that one has received offerings from this
fine young playwright that are not just physical.

Established in 2004, Crystalwords is an independent theatre blog by Naeem Kapadia. Naeem is a lawyer and lover of the arts and culture currently based in Singapore. He has dabbled in both acting and directing and has reviewed theatre for publications such as London student newspaper The Beaver, Singapore daily newspaper TODAY and online arts journals The Flying Inkpot and Arts Equator.